Until Cece (Happily Ever Alpha World)

He smirks. “Oh yeah? And what did you discover?”

“It’s Korean. And it means sweetheart. But my question is, what is a nice southern gentleman such as yourself doing speaking Korean? You don’t look Asian to me.” I gasp as soon as the words leave my mouth, and I slap my hand over my lips. “I swear I’m not racist,” I mumble through my palm. “You just don’t look Asian.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Saying someone doesn’t look Asian isn’t being racist, you goober.” He props a piece of lime on the edge of my shot glass. “I was in the military, stationed in South Korea for nearly six years. I picked up on a few things,” he explains.

“Really? I didn’t know there were US troops in Korea,” I admit. “But what do I know? I, good sir, never went to school past high school.” I point to him with my wedge of lime then use it to make the side of my hand sticky enough for the salt to stick. “Well, until a couple months ago. Now I’m the old bitch in the freshmen core classes with freaking teenagers.”

Suddenly, my wrist is in a tight grip, one that is firm but doesn’t hurt, and my startled eyes look above where my lime is now hovering midair until I meet the fiery gaze of my larger-than-life boss.

“One,” he growls, “never speak about yourself in that tone in my presence again, naekkeo. I don’t like hearing you be self-deprecating, insinuating that you’re stupid, when I know for a fact you are anything but.”

I gulp, nodding slowly, unable to look away from his face so close to mine, the closest he’s been since the evening the tornado hit, and he’s touching me. He had been the first man to touch me besides Mike and my stepdad in a literal decade when we hid in the refrigerator, and although it’s only my wrist at the moment, I feel it in every cell of my fucking body.

“Two—” His grip lightens, and he nudges the saltshaker closer toward me, visibly forcing himself to cool his jets. “—yes. The busiest US Army airfield in Asia is at Camp Humphreys, and it’s the largest US military base overseas.”

“Oh,” I breathe, dutifully shaking the salt on my hand when he prompts me to do so with his gorgeous chocolatey eyes. “And um… what did you do in the military?” My voice quivers, not from fear but from being able to feel his touch as if he were still holding my wrist. Had it ever felt that way when Mike touched me? Scorching, like a brand, but in the best of ways?

I stop that thought in its tracks.

It’s unfair to compare Winston to Mike.

But at the same time, Mike was my first everything. He’s the only person I can gauge any new experience with. Surely, it’s only natural for me to do so.

“I was a cook,” he replies, and that pulls a smile across my face.

“Well, that makes sense,” I tell him, gesturing around his bar and grill with the shot glass. “You must’ve made bank overseas in order to open up your own restaurant.” I close my eyes, shaking my head. “God, I’m sorry. I think the alcohol has loosened my tongue to a rude degree. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I feel his presence get oh so much closer, and when I open my eyes again, he’s only inches away as he props himself on his elbows right in front of me.

“When are you going to realize you can say, ask, and do anything you want with me, and I’m not going to find you stupid or rude, Cece?” he prompts, and I audibly gulp. “There’s nothing in this world I want more than to get to know everything about you. And for you to get to know me.”

There’s a pause in which all we do is stare into each other’s eyes, and I’m trying to figure out if I really heard what he just said, or if I’m just imagining what I’d love to hear Winston Schmidt say to me in my wildest fantasies.

“But no, I didn’t make enough in the military to build my own restaurant. I did, however, earn the GI bill and used it to go to culinary school. And when I graduated, I was granted my trust fund, which I used to”—he gestures out with his arm but doesn’t move from his place right in front of me—“build my own restaurant.”

I swallow again. Have I even blinked? Can I blink? I think I’ve lost that ability.

“Trust fund?” I squeak.

He smirks. “You know how I’m too hot to have a geeky name like Winston?” he asks, and I feel the heat of the tequila suddenly turn into a blazing inferno inside my gut as embarrassment fills me. He heard me say that to Steph? Jesus H. Christ.